


(your love is) holy

by orphan_account



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: M/M, Repost of old fic, random monologuing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You are not my other half, and you never will be, for I am not a half.
Relationships: Famelet, Violet Chachki/Kurtis Dam-Mikkelsen | Miss Fame
Kudos: 6





	(your love is) holy

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a famelet fic for everyone who enjoys the ship and hasn't seen a new fic in 82 years. Let me know if you enjoy xx

I fear you are leaving and I fear I no longer have the means to stop you. I fear I will come home one weekday night at ten past three in the morning when my legs are moments from giving out and my heart craves your touch, and you will not be asleep in our bed or watching the stars on our porch. You’re becoming distant again, darling. Like fifty dollar champagne has become preferable to my arms, five dollar red wine in the back of a club a better way to spend your evening than wrapped in fluffy blankets and my love. Like you did when it got  _ bad _ . When you would leave and not return for a couple of mornings, insisting you were safe with new friends (despite us both knowing you are an introvert at heart and much prefer the comfort of familiar faces and steady voices in a restaurant than the drunk meaningless bodies on the sweaty dancefloor). You’re not the life and soul of the party, but neither am I and that’s what connects us. We’re scene-stealers, show-stoppers. We show up an hour or two after everybody else, capture the room’s attention with the click of Louboutins on the hard floor, and a couple of Rihanna songs later, your head is in my lap on our couch and it’s like it never happened. I both respect and admire our fellow queens who are able to dance until dawn and do it all again in twelve hours, but it’s not the life for either of us. Routine is what comforts me and there is no routine in taking blonde surfer boys home after a heavy night of screaming 2000’s Britney hits and too many vodka sodas. Strange I know, as I am a fire sign by nature and that is apparently what I should enjoy. I remember when we used to laugh and say how the universe messed up with that one; my personality being far more comparable with the earth sign. Grounded and stable, a consistent tide lapping the shore before retreating, but never daring to break the cycle and cause havoc.

You fit with fire, though, despite being a Gemini and an air sign at that. Passion runs like blood through everything you do, and we both know you could, and would, destroy like a bull in a china shop to get what you wanted (only if it was necessary though). You’re also temperamental as fuck, and  _ god _ maybe that’s why we’ve ended up in this mess.

You haven’t been home for precisely seventy eight hours and in that time, although nothing major has happened; no new fashion collections from our favourite designers in Paris have been released, the pups haven’t wrecked yet another chair leg, and there’s been no freak weather storms or anything, but it really does feel like something is just  _ not right _ . I checked, and my shirt isn’t on inside out, I haven’t locked Mina outside by accident (again) and I bought all my tips home last night. I know it’s deeper than that, and what I actually want to say is that it’s like somebody has cut a jagged irregular shape into my ribs with a blunt table knife and they’re trying to piece it back together without an anaesthetic. It’s sharp, and it hurts. I’m not going to be able to breathe without the piercing corners catching on my internal organs, hopefully not lacerating any of the important ones in the process, until they’ve matched the shapes back up and mended the hole. I cannot breathe without you here.

Thinking about it now, I can barely remember what happened to make you leave, again. If I was to be utterly honest, I know nothing did. That’s always been a fault of mine, trying to blame myself for the actions and choices of other people, and I have been consciously trying to override it. I’ve worked through the past, forgiven myself for the ex boyfriend who walked out on me, the childhood best friend who moved states without putting a mobile number through my letterbox. You, however, haven’t made it quite so easy for my mind. I could, very easily, spiral desperately, back into my old unhealthy thinking methods and anxiety-inducing ways, but I will not do that. I refuse to let myself be broken down by you. For you know exactly what you are doing, even with the half-hearted excuses you occasionally provide that I am tired of hearing. I heard long ago that you cannot help somebody who doesn’t want to be helped, but never was I told what to do in this situation. When every breath I take is only a half gasp because you used to fill my lungs with sugary sweetness and now there is nothing but your empty unfulfilled promises. There’s a crushed green boiled candy down in there somewhere too, but in the context of this situation, I think it’s rather irrelevant.

You are not my other half, and you never will be, for I am not a half. Something else I learnt years prior to  _ you _ . You’ve already taken far more than your share, and I’m beginning to think I’m going to have to live the rest of my life with only about a fifth of a heart, a useless charred set of lungs and if I’ve been so lucky, you’ll have left me my hair. If you’re going to leave though, I’ll probably have to shave that too, as I can still feel your fingertips coasting through the waves and it haunts me to my rotten core. I used to be sure I’d have an early onset of baldness, the way you would pull at the roots of it, undoubtedly tugging strands out as you went. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere but I don’t have the energy to cough it out. 

I’d rather you just came back, because I really need the rest of my heart (the dogs deserve more than what you left), and the lungs are kind of crucial to my existence. They were healthy before you came, never been tarred by cigarette smoke, but your goddamn selfishness has taken years out of them and I’ll be lucky to see fifty if you don’t stop.

We also never finished  _ Moulin Rouge  _ and I’d like to see the ending.

So please, come back. 


End file.
